Demand some answers from Amy about what’s really going on.

Amy

It’s after ten before you stroll into work. You’re in a suit today, reversing polarity from the prior day’s costume testing the lower limits. You ought to feel more confident than you do, between the suit and the freshly rinsed saliva of the gorgeous blonde Avery Parker sprayed off your cock in the morning shower. But you don’t.

It isn’t that something is wrong. After that wild, domineering sex with Summer, the surpassing ease with which you demanded Avery’s submission, the fawning of your peerlessly hot administrative assistant Jenna, there’s a lot going right. Who knows what other opportunities are waiting in the weeds in a pussy-rich environment like Monarch Innovations.

Still, there’s Lorelei. The exact same swagger that had bowled over the others had nearly landed you in court. Whatever your inexplicable levels of success, there are some doors your name and title evidently won’t open. Somehow, you got the sense your title kept her from escalating things to the level you probably deserved, but the why of it completely eludes you.

Tempting as it may be to continue amusing yourself with the ladies of Monarch, it’s time to exercise a little self-restraint and focus big picture. That means going back to where this strange revelation began. You press the elevator button for marketing and try not to notice the woman riding up with you, easily hot enough to quit her day job and take up modeling. She ignores you in turn. If you…?

No. No.

You make your way down toward Amy’s office, breezing past the receptionist and down the hallway. She calls after you to ask who you’re here to see, but you merely point to her name on the office number listing on the wall and go on by. Down at Amy’s office, the blinds are drawn, door closed, but the light’s on. You walk right in, a demand for some goddamn answers at the ready.

“All right, Amy, what the… Wait. Is that…? Did you…? No. Oh. Oh gosh, I’m sorry.” You pause, jerk backwards to double-check the name on the door. It’s the right office. “Is, ah, Amy around? I need to talk to her about, um, yeah.”

The woman sitting behind Amy’s desk favors you with a bemused smile. “About a yeah? Well let me see if I can clear up some time for yeah’s.” She flips through some pages in what might be Amy’s planner. “Darn, sorry, no yeah-time until week after next. Looks like you’ll have to settle for some nope.”

You frown. “Should you be looking through her things…?”

“OK, you got me.”

“Yeah. I mean… what?”

“What?”

“No, I mean, you said you got me, but… I don’t… no.”

“You don’t know? Or no, you don’t?”

“Um, I… yeah.”

The two of you squint in confusion at one another. “I am so confused,” she says in exact time with you.

There’s an awkward moment in which the two of you stare at one another. Whoever she is, she’s gorgeous. Slender, but enough curves that her black silk blouse catches the light in the right places. Heavy-lidded eyes and plump, kissable lips, long dark hair streaked with blonde framing a face accented by broad, hot nerd girl glasses. The same kind Amy wears, you’re pretty sure. The longer you look, the more similarities you feel like you see. This woman looks maybe half Asian, and similar enough to be Amy’s sister, or maybe cousin.

“So… yeah. I’m Will Saxon. I’m the new Associate Director of IT Security. Sorry, maybe I should open with the basics.” You chuckle awkwardly and step forward, extending a hand.

She smiles oddly. “So I heard?”

“Word does seem to be getting around,” you comment dryly. “Anyway, you are…?”

“I don’t get what you’re up to, but… OK. My name is Amy. Nice to meet you.” The words come slow, crisp, as if she’s humoring you, like a parent who’s agreeing to a game with their toddler that’s right at the edge of their silliness threshold.

“What? Amy… who?”

She points to the letters etched into the glass door. Amy Marchiano, Junior Vice President of Marketing, then waits for you to continue your strange game of improv.

“You’re not Amy Marchiano. Amy is… Asian.” Ordinarily you might cringe a little at your first choice of identifier, but you’re off your game.

“Can’t sneak anything past you. Forgot my floral silk dress and chopsticks, I guess.”

“No. I mean, Amy’s…” What other adjectives do you have? Beautiful. Sweet. A little young for the job. Funny, but not quite as funny as she tries to be. So far, this stranger is batting a thousand for her impersonation. “Her hair is black,” you say at last.

She nods, twisting a photo on the desk to face you. It’s one of those digital frames that lets you select an image file, this time of the same woman but with black hair, a little shorter – Amy’s length – the real Amy’s length – laying on her back, holding a nonplused-looking yellow cat over her. You’re pretty sure Amy had the same picture, though when you were snooping for her password to level 7, admiring her desk photo wasn’t a priority. Fuck, but changing the hair color makes them look nearly identical. Nearly.

“I mean… did she… no. No. You’re not Amy.”

Her indulgent smile fades, giving rise to a look of worry. Before she can respond, however, the receptionist taps gently at the door. “Ms. Marchiano, there was someone here to…” She spots you standing off to the side. “Oh good, looks like he found you.” Out of the corner of your eye you detect a mild rebuke on the woman’s face. Still a little jumpy after the break-in, you suppose.

But also, what the fuck?

“That’s not Amy Marchiano!” you point out, glaring.

The receptionist takes half a step back from you, nervous. “Amy, do you want me to call–”

“It’s fine,” Amy says quickly. “We just need a few minutes. All right? And close the door behind you please.”

The receptionist hesitates, but at a nod from Amy, she departs. The door remains open behind her, though.

“OK, what the hell is going on here? I don’t know who you are, but you are not Amy Marchiano.”

She eyes you, concerned, or perhaps wary, and then slowly leans down and retrieves a purse. After a moment of rummaging, she produces a wallet and holds it out to you. It’s flipped open to show a driver’s license. The picture is older, clearly, though this time, you’re pretty sure it’s actually Amy. You hold it up, look at the photo, look at her. The hair is black again, and much shorter, not even to the shoulders. Is it Amy? Or is it this imposter? You can’t actually tell.

“I… I’m…”

“Will, sit down. You look like you’re about to faint. Are you OK? Are you… on something?”

“No I’m not on something!” You refuse the seat, too.

“All right, sorry, I was only asking. You’re…” She frowns, but is by all appearances trying to be comforting despite being the source of your discomfort. “Maybe you could tell me what you stopped by for? That might help clear your head a little, talking it out.”

“Right, because a quick chat about why half the women at Monarch are ready to suck me off at the snap of my fingers and the other half don’t have a clue who I am will really shed some light on why you suddenly look like a different but similarly hot woman!”

Her head cocks back. “You… think I’m hot?” There’s a faint pleased smile.

“Of course you’re hot! Who the hell isn’t around here?!”

By all appearances, she’s reacting to your words more as compliment than accusation. “You’re not so bad yourself, buster.”

“Stop flirting with me. This is so fucked. I don’t know how you… or why… But this is not OK!”

One side of her mouth twists up in a wry smile. “Maybe you could take a load off and give me a chance to make it OK?”

God. Is she implying what it sounds like she’s implying? You’d bet those lips would feel amazing wrapped around…

No. Control yourself! You shake your head. “I didn’t come up here for another blowjob!”

“Wow, somebody sure thinks highly of his odds.” She chuckles, shaking her head in amusement. “Relax, Will. I promise not to **** you to let me go down on you.”

No. You’re not going to let her disarming manner lull you again. What is she up to? Where is the real Amy? Why is the receptionist playing along? “This isn’t over.”

“I hope not,” she calls after your retreating backside. “Get some water, take a load off, and…”

Whatever else she’s advising you miss as you storm past the resentful-looking receptionist. “Is everything all right?” she asks, but her tone is asking What did you do to upset Ms. Marchiano? You ignore her, all but running to the elevator, then back to your office.

It’s dark in there, and quiet. Not quite a full week into your new job, yet you never thought you’d see a day when you were glad not to see Jenna waiting for you. You need to clear your head. Are you going crazy? That woman was not Amy! Like someone hired an Amy stunt double or something. You pause to give yourself another sanity check – was that Amy? – but no. Last time you met, she was pissed as hell. Justifiably so, probably, even if her voyeuristic habits gave you equal claim. Then today she’s like an old friend bubbling with concern for you. No. You’re not crazy. Something is crazy. It’s not you, though. You’re not going crazy.

You’re not.

You’re not stupid, either. You log into your PC and set after the smoking gun that will prove that you’re being gaslit. You’re not sure what you’ll do once you find a picture of the real Amy online, but at least it will prove you’re still in reality. Damn. Her social media is private, and even her profile picture is only a big yellow sunflower in a green field. That’s no help. The public company directory has her department’s contact info, but no more than. The private directory, the one for employees, has more, though. It’s one of the features you recommended against in your audit, providing employees with easy access to a wealth of info about their coworkers, but for today it’s coming in handy.

You browse through the impressively long list of marketing personnel until you find a link to Amy’s bio.

It’s not her. It’s the stunt double.

All the other information seems correct. Her office number, the extension matches with the one you saved to your phone, and the little self-authored blurb sure sounds like Amy.

500 characters to make myself seem interesting and accessible to staff, you say? Game on. My name is Amy Marchiano, and somehow I got lucky enough to lead the marketing analytics team at Monarch Innovations! When I’m not analyzing markets, I keep myself busy parasailing, writing awkwardly rhyming poetry, taking cooking classes so I can steal nibbles from people who can actually cook, and trying to leash train my kitty Nutmeg. If you’re in the area, stop by and say hello – especially if you’ve got coffee!

You’ve never met Nutmeg, but it’s the same damn picture currently sitting on Amy’s desktop. It’s just not Amy.

Phil stops by to ask your go-ahead on his edits to the PTT stack he’s been working on, and seems to take your hasty, blindly granted permission as a sign of good faith, leaving with a proud smile. Another of your subordinates, Giada – the insanely hot one, because it’s Monarch so there’s always an insanely hot one – taps at your door with an inquisitive look, but you banish her before she can speak a word.

It’s nuts. If it’s Amy screwing with you, she brought her staff in on it. If it’s some weirdo up to something, stealing Amy’s office while she’s on a retreat or something for the day, then she brought Amy’s staff in on it. And whoever is doing whatever, they sure crossed their t’s and dotted not only their i’s but their j’s, too.

The door opens again, and you’re prepared to bark at whoever’s disturbing you, when you see it’s Jenna.

“Oh, you’re back! Looking really sharp today, sir,” she says, as if she doesn’t easily put you to shame in her white suit jacket, cleavage bulging, mini skirt enticing. “I was out getting some supplies and checking up on those outstanding reports you said you were waiting on Wednesday. Looks like…” She pauses. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

Jenna hears it for what it is, setting down a pair of paper bags you hadn’t noticed she was carrying and coming to your desk, kneeling beside you. “You look like hell. Come on. Do you want to talk? You can talk to me, sir. I am sworn to your complete and total confidentiality.”

“Confidentiality just might be the problem,” you grumble. “Too many goddamn secrets in this building.”

She gives your knee a soft squeeze, accompanied by a dazzling, reassuring smile. Doesn’t seem like she cares about you seeing her panties, either, though perhaps that’s simply her pride in matching the gleaming white of her suit. “Secrets are good, though, right? Keeps the Associate Director of IT Security in business.”

You sigh, deciding to let it comfort you, though you’re nowhere near comfortable. “You may have a point, Jenna.”

She nods. “Oh, and before I forget, someone from 7 stopped by. They said you’re due for orientation? I asked if there was a specific time they wanted you and they said no, but as soon as you have a few. Said it would take the afternoon, so I rescheduled your afternoon to make space. I hope that’s OK, sir. They made it sound important, like you didn’t really have a choice.”

****? What the hell?

“Who was it?”

“Nobody I recognized. But then, why would I, right?” She shrugs. For a second, you think one of her tits might escape from that soft jostle, but no. She doesn’t react to you watching for it, though. If anything, she seems to be expecting it.

“Jenna, what do you know about what they do on 7?”

“Nothing. Secret stuff. I’m new here. I try not to think about it. Not my business.”

It’s the most defensive answer you’ve ever heard. It only makes you wonder harder what she knows, though her point is sound. She was only a temp until you brought her on as your secretary, so what could she really know? Still, it’s one more straw on the sagging back of your paranoia camel.

“All right. I’ll… Hmm. I’ll figure it out.”

She nods. “I know you will, sir. That’s why you are who you are.”

Jenna hesitates at your feet for a long moment. Long enough that no man could resist thoughts of what the sight of this woman squatting before him could portend. You could do it, you’re sure. The least this company owes you for what they’re doing to your poor overwrought imagination. But she’s still your employee, and you still have to share this space with her.

But no. Someone from 7 is coming, and probably soon. Whatever Monarch is up to, you don’t trust them, and you’re not about to be corralled into… whatever it is. You should get out of here, make them try again. Go after 7 on your own terms – or perhaps not at all. For all the thrills, this company might be more trouble than it’s worth.

“Sir? You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you?” Jenna asks sweetly. So very sweetly.

Decision time! Voting is online at my patreon for $10+ patrons.
“Amy” rendered by Souracid.
“Jenna” modeled by Nata Lee.

• Take her. You deserve it.
• Dismiss her and wait for someone to take you to 7.
• Send her away, then make yourself scarce. Giada wanted to talk; hide out in her office.
• Try to sneak into 7 on your own using Amy’s password.
• Quit and get a normal job around normal, plain, boring women who don’t spin your world on its head.